Page 4 of Yours Truly, the Duke
Wyatt’s sight blurred again. His head had begun to spin and his ears were ringing louder than church bells on Christmas morning. He felt like a wolf caught in a hidden snare.
“Brown, I think,” Wyatt answered in an offhand manner. “Dark-blond hair.”
“That’s a start.” Hurst walked behind the desk. PattingWyatt on the shoulder, he plunked down his glass. “Let me have your chair. I’ll do the honors. My hand is better than yours.”
Wyatt willingly gave up his seat and Hurst grabbed a clean sheet of fine parchment and dipped the quill into ink. Hurst was the clear, levelheaded one of the trio of dukes. He’d kept them from participating in outright foolish endeavors that would have surely gotten them killed during the daring days of their youth.
“My dearest and lovely Miss Hale,” he wrote quickly as he said the words aloud.“The thought of meeting you brings fondest remembrances of starlit spring evenings in London when night birds chirp from their nests in the budding trees and velvety flowers, newly opened, bow their blossoms to await morning’s first ray of light.”Hurst stopped and looked up at them. His green eyes narrowed as if he were looking into the sun. “Is that poetic enough?”
“Damned good.” Rick inclined his head and tipped his glass toward his friend before taking a swallow. “How about adding ‘the scent of lilacs danced on the air’?”
“Excellent.” Hurst hastily plunged the quill into the inkpot again and continued to write. “I’ve never met a lady who didn’t adore the smell of lilacs. And we should add something about a rose among the thistles.”
“And moonlight sparkling in her blue eyes.”
“They are brown,” Wyatt corrected.
“Even better. And she must have enchantingly dewy lips with blushing cheeks.”
“Wait.” Hurst held up the quill and blinked quickly several times as if trying to clear his muddled thoughts. “Best we don’t mention the color of her eyes or hair. We can’t afford to get the particulars wrong.”
Did Wyatt really need to put all this frippery into theletter? It sounded much like the poetic verse he’d been forced to recite while at Eton. He rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders restlessly, trying to loosen the tight knot of tension that had gathered at the top of his spine.
“You best have another bottle of your finest opened for us, Wyatt,” Hurst said without looking up from his writing. “This might take all night.”
And it almost did. There were many starts, stops, and arguing about the use of words and the true way to actually romance a lady into saying yes until the entire process of writing a proposal of marriage felt wrong and ridiculous.
The next morning, Wyatt woke seated at his desk. He blinked dry, grainy eyes and tried to ignore the fierce headache his overindulgence had gifted him. Regardless of his condition, he was thinking a little clearer. He read the pages of garbled words and winced.
How the hell had they come up with such blather in their drunken state? It was pure rubbish!
Without questioning himself, he tore up the final draft his friends had proclaimed as the perfect letter to woo a lady and plucked the quill from its cradle. On a fresh sheet of paper, he wrote:
Dear Miss Hale,
I will arrive late in the afternoon with an offer of marriage.
Yours truly,
The Duke
CHAPTER 2
A CLUMP OF DAISIES
—RICHARD DANA
For in thy play,
I hear them say,
Here, man, thy wisdom borrow,
In heart be a child,
In word, true and mild,
Hold by faith, come joy, or come sorrow.
